by Amy Clare Fontaine 1. Everywhere. They say that passion flares like fire, but this flavor of pain tastes more like drowning: choking on a pressure so deep it might crush me. I feel like your teeth are gnawing my bones. Like my heart has been ripped out by the same claws that held me. I miss your long tongue on my neck, your fangs in my flesh. The way your tail wagged when I came home from work, as if you were happy to see me. As if. They say a werewolf’s bite hurts like hell, but they don’t know. The worst wounds werewolves give you are the ones…

by Katlina Sommerberg I am one of four genemodded clones jogging onto the court. All three opponents wear black jerseys, proof they all survived a previous season. I’m the novice — stepped out of the vat this morning — the designated Gimmick of the game, wearing white to enhance the crowd’s entertainment for my eventual injuries or, as many in the audience have betted on, my death. When a human dies, it’s a tragedy; when we die, it’s entertainment:  our dying game becomes a season’s highlight. Ostrich, the tallest opponent, fistbumps his chest and shrieks at the crowd as if he’s oblivious to the bulletproof barrier. The inhuman sound warbling…

by Priya Sridhar The dress shop had the best location in the forest colony web; it hung at a sharp east angle beside a mosquito-smoothie shop and a shoe store, where a thick branch had the best sunset view. During the afternoon foot traffic, many patrons with smoothies would loiter by the windows, to eye the freshly spun silk and styles on display. A few tried to rush in and get a sleeve mended or fabric altered for sudden weight gain or loss, but often they would leave after seeing the sign that read ‘ONE DAY MINIMAL WAIT.’ Miss Raglan, the proprietress, added beads to a sleek silken dress that…

by Jack Adam Our drakopegasus rarely bites. And almost never in anger. She tries to breathe fire, but struggles when she’s high. Thin air up there. It’s difficult to always know what she wants, while she seems to understand me just fine. I was always simple, resistant to change, predictable. She, however, is complex, a myriad of feelings, notions as wide as the sea. Her lineage includes destroyers of kingdoms, hoarders of treasures, and yes, a few swallowers of men. I don’t know where I came from, and Perseus won’t tell me. I’d like to think heroic steeds. Maybe even Unicorns.

by David Sklar It’s such a nuisance, dying every day. Being eaten every day by the same rough men. You may not know this, but my body is still me, even when it’s meat. So I feel the passage of my roasted flesh through their intestines. The battle sweat isn’t so sexy, once you’ve spent time in a person’s gut. But you get to know a man that way, in a way no one else does. I’ve been in the warriors of Valhalla, every one. I’m in them still, becoming part of them. It’s a hassle, being resurrected every day. Remembering, even after I have been eaten, what form to…

by Searska GreyRaven The street lights were just flicking on as I walked up the sidewalk toward a dimly lit industrial building. Well, dimly lit for a human. My feline eyes had no problem with it. I reached the entrance and hesitated, one paw clutching a thermal bag while the other hovered over a faintly glowing doorbell. I tried to take a slow, even breath. It came in ragged and left even worse. Damn it, I had it bad. Cats are supposed to be aloof. I was anything but aloof. You can do this, Cal. Breathe. Just ask her. The worst she can do is say no, right?

by Gabriel Robinson A mouse was very sleepy. He could not sleep for thinking of the cat who prowled outside the hole in the baseboard. Sometimes the cat poked in a paw, lying on his shoulder to curl his claws upward in a playful way that made the mouse’s heart shudder. Sometimes he went away. He could be gone for hours. Those times were the worst, because the mouse never knew when he would return. He preferred the certainty that the cat was out there, with his fangs, pacing and watching the hole.

by Divyasri Krishnan Four of us were bred for the mission. We were of good Perognathus longimembris lab stock, sturdy, banister-brown, able to go 148 hours without drinking water, which ensured our feces would be as concentrated as possible. We had never been outside the silver grate of our cage. We had never tunneled in soil that didn’t taste like metal. But that was okay; we were special. We were astronauts. They introduced us to the humans a month before launch. The big one, like a long stick, didn’t take much to us. But the elderly one loved us and spoke to us often, even when the scientists got mad.

by Dana Vickerson If Mama doesn’t get up soon, we’re going to miss our chance to get off Mars. Mama is a human, but I call her “Mama” because she says I am her baby kitty and her special boy.  She is sleeping, but I am hungry. It’s a delicate art, waking up your human. If you’re too eager, they’ll likely get cross with you, and while Mama is a sweet and kind soul, I do not like to see her cross.  If you are too gentle, though, your human is likely to continue their blissful sleep while you sit on the floor with a rumble in your belly.